


Line of Fire

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Series: Up in Flames [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Azazel is a little shit, Big Brother Dean Winchester, Gen, Good Parent John Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Season/Series 01, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Pre-Series Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective John Winchester, Teen Dean Winchester, Teen Sam Winchester, Weechesters, Worried Dean Winchester, Worried John Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:27:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23364697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: Pre-Series AU. When John gets too close for comfort, the yellow-eyed demon decides to turn the tide and threatens Sam in a way that hits close to home and that the Winchesters won't forget. The aftermath leaves them all shaken, and John has to decide between continuing his hunt for the demon responsible for it all, or abandoning it for the safety of his sons.
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Up in Flames [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1680514
Comments: 24
Kudos: 111





	1. Fueling the Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Previously posted on LiveJournal August 2009.

_Standing in the line of fire it's gonna shoot ya  
Standing in the line of fire it's comin to ya  
"Line of Fire" - Journey_

  
  
  
  
It was almost cute, watching John dash around like a hero. If circumstances were different he'd jump down and shake his hand, tell him what a fine citizen he was. What fine, fine boys he had.  
  
Unfortunately, there was the problem of having yellow eyes involved which would make John reach for the holy water. Wouldn't do him a lick of good, but it'd still be amusing to watch.  
  
The baby whimpered in the crib until he reached down to shush it. He didn't really have any plans for this little one, not like he did for John's little boy. He had enough kids to play for his major league team, and he wanted Sammy as the captain. Sam seemed the best candidate so far, and the hunting rate with which John was going only made it sweeter. Kid would have to grow up, but Azazel could wait. He'd waited this long, hadn't he? He could stand to wait a little longer. Patience of a saint. Minus the saint, but he'd killed one, once. Maybe he'd learned something from it.  
  
He could hear the car door slamming now, hero John on his way, and he smiled. John had gotten cockier lately, and it was time to show him who was running this circus. He turned his golden eyes to the blonde woman against the wall, her petrified eyes locked on her baby. Oh, how sweet. Really. “Up you go,” he told her, and she began to slide up the wall. Predictably, she began to shriek. And she was high pitched, too. He found himself wincing a little as she went. No doubt the baby was going to start crying any-  
  
The bedroom door almost flew off its hinges, startling him, and John immediately ran for him. Faster than he'd expected. He winked out of existence and tossed his hands towards the woman. Little barbeque wouldn't hurt. Hadn't quite gotten her to the ceiling, thanks to Speeding Bullet, but she was close enough.  
  
Except she didn't catch on fire. Nothing did but the wall she'd been on. John had gotten her down, pulled her away to safety, and had grabbed a _fire extinguisher_ from his bag. Unbelievable. Azazel was tempted to toss the nearest cat into the tree and wait for the ladder John was sure to have in his bag.  
  
The fire was extinguished, the woman _ever_ so grateful, the baby shushed in his mommy's arms, and John looked satisfied. Almost damn near a smirk to where Azazel had been. But hey, Azazel was a big demon now, he could take it like a grown-up sonuvabitch that he was.  
  
Okay, no he couldn't. This had been _his_ operation, _his_ game show, and then the hero had taken it over. He glared from his unseen place outside the window. Not that it was doing any good; John was still smiling and talking with the woman. The woman that wasn't in the deep fryer, timer set to extra crispy. The baby even looked like it was _gurgling_ , and happily at that.  
  
Oh god, he was going to be sick. This wasn't how it was supposed to go down. At all. John was going to pay for tonight, and pay dearly. He'd thought this would be the best way to strike, but it hadn't worked. He could find another woman, another blonde with long hair and curls-  
  
Or he could sacrifice a little of his own plan for maximum devastation on John's part. He could feel a smile growing, overtaking the glare from moments earlier. This he wouldn't see coming. It was a break from pattern, not something demons did.  
  
Azazel wasn't your average demon.  
  
“Played your hand well, Johnny-boy,” he whispered through his grin. “But I'm still dealer, and I'm playing the ace.”  
  
He could do this. This would be fun, maybe even more fun than finding random women to use as the ultimate pin-ups. He'd be forced to change his own plans to do it, but. Well.  
  
He could always find a new kid. Sammy was expendable.

* * *

  
  
  
John walked in and shut the door behind him without a slam. He was bone weary, he smelled like smoke, and his eyes still burned from seeing the blonde on the ceiling. Well, almost the ceiling.  
  
And that was what made it all worth it. She hadn't been another victim. He'd saved her from being set on fire, saved her baby from having to endure the same fate as his children. Tonight...tonight had been a victory.  
  
He let a small smirk tug at his lips. _I'm onto you, you sonuvabitch,_ he thought, and he hoped to hell that damnable thing could hear his thoughts. Because he'd finally caught onto a pattern, found a track he could trace, and it'd gotten careless. And that made it easy pickings to kill.  
  
“Dad? What happened?”  
  
His eyes swept over to his oldest, wide awake and fully clothed. Dean looked nearly as tired as John was, but damn if he wasn't up and waiting anxiously. John hadn't told him what he was hunting tonight, but Dean wasn't stupid: he'd pieced it together from John's notes. He knew.  
  
Unlike his older brother, Sam was dressed in his pajamas and shaking himself awake from his seated perch on the bed. “D'd?” he asked, voice rough from sleep. He was shaking himself as awake as he could, and John felt a pang shoot through his heart. Fourteen and starting to grow, but he still looked like the baby Mary had seen last.  
  
God, _Mary_.  
  
“Dad?” Sam asked again, more awake now. Dean looked even more anxious, and John shook his head slowly.  
  
“M'all right,” he whispered, coughing once to dispel the taste of smoke. “Girl's safe.”  
  
Sam nodded like he'd expected nothing less. Dean's shoulders cam down a full inch. He'd figured it out all right. “What about her baby?” Sam continued asking. Boy seemed to have an eternal storage of questions, but this one John hadn't expected. His eyes shot to Dean, who pursed his lips and looked away.  
  
“Dean said she had a baby,” Sam said, as if to clarify. “Is the baby...?”  
  
“Okay,” John said. “Infant's fine.” He gave Dean a look that wasn't mistakable. “Don't think I told you the details of the hunt.”  
  
He hadn't minded Dean knowing, but Sammy knowing was different. From the way Dean gave a small wince, he obviously knew how John felt. Slip of the tongue, probably. “Sorry sir,” Dean said softly. “Didn't mean to say anything.” Bingo.  
  
“Why?” Sam asked, just like John knew he would. “Why can't I know? I get trained and stuff, but I can't know about a hunt?”  
  
“This one's different, Sam,” John said, and hoped his tone would end any further discussions. This was a hunt he wanted to spare his children from ever getting involved in. This was his battle, his fight. They weren't as personally involved as John was. Little hunts they could handle, but not this one. He sincerely hoped they both got that, especially tonight. He couldn't really handle an argument tonight.  
  
Sam, mercifully, let it go for once. Kid was like a terrier these days, wouldn't let go of anything. That much he'd gotten from his mother, and the additional, unexpected thought of Mary made John shut his eyes. This woman's husband had been on a business trip. On his way home now, after the events of tonight, but he would have a wife to return to. He wouldn't know John's pain.  
  
“Let's get some shut eye,” John told them both. “Dean, go get dressed quick: I'm gonna need the shower.” There wasn't going to be any sleeping when smoke lingered on his clothes, his skin, his mind.  
  
Despite the parallels to Mary and that night fourteen years ago, the bastard hadn't won tonight, and the glimmer of a smile rose again. John was getting closer every day, and he hoped the thing was cowering knowing it. It would die: John would make sure of it.

* * *

  
  
  
The damn mattress was lumpy. He knew, logically, that they were only sleeping for the night, just one more night, and then they'd be off. He was eighteen and the Impala was a lover of the open road, and if he actually got some sleep tonight, he was pretty certain that his dad would let him drive. He'd looked haggard coming back, but not sad. It'd been a quiet victory of sorts, and Dean knew why.  
  
And he shouldn't have blabbed to Sammy, but god, he'd been so freakin' worried about his dad. It'd come back to bite him in the ass with Sam asking question after question, and couldn't the kid shut up for _once_ in his life?  
  
Dean shifted again, feeling the lumps in his side more than before. Sam usually weighed those down, so where the hell was the kid sleeping? On the far end? Dean bounced enough to test his theory, but no gasp or sleepy sound of confusion was heard, no thump as a certain little brother hit the floor. Dean opened his eyes and frowned into the darkness. Sam wasn't weighing down the lumps because he wasn't on the bed at all. What the...?  
  
He shifted to sit up and let his eyes adjust before looking towards the bathroom. The door was wide open, the room dark and empty. Sam wasn't there. Was he already on the floor, or-  
  
A small, rasped breath caught his attention, and he knew without a doubt it was his little brother's. “Sam?” he whispered into the room, risking waking his father. Dean sat himself all the way up now, looking around for Sam. His stomach was clenching in anxious knots, and leaving him feeling sick. “Sam?” he called again, a little louder.  
  
Rustling to his left told him his dad was awake. “What's the matter?” Dad asked, sounding sleepy and exhausted still. “Dean?”  
  
Another inhaled gasp came, this one shaking. Dean turned to look up without really truly thinking about why the sound was coming from there. He simply followed the sound, head tilting back to look.  
  
And stared, frozen, his own breath punched out of his lungs. Sam was plastered to the ceiling, his long hair slightly fanned out as if from static electricity. His arms were bent, left palm against the ceiling, right palm open as if reaching for help. His left leg was bent crookedly at the knee and looked painful.  
  
But it was the look of fear, _terror_ , on Sam's face that made him freeze. That and the fact that he was spread out on the ceiling just like their mom had been. Sam was shivering, his fingers reaching down in a plea, tears falling from his eyes. His shuddered another gasp, and Dean tried to move, tried to do anything except stare at his brother.  
  
Then the ceiling erupted into flames.


	2. The Smoldering Aftermath

_Hey you look in the sky, skies on fire  
Look in the sky, flames burn higher  
"Skies On Fire" - AC/DC_

  
  
  
“ _Dean!_ ” his dad shouted but Dean was already flying to stand on the bed. Sam's open, reaching hand was in his, and two seconds after that Sam was being yanked from the ceiling by Dean and their dad. Then he kept falling, Dad rolling him onto the bed to take out the flames. The fire disappeared into the bed sheets, and the fire above them began to consume all of the ceiling and the walls.  
  
“Take your brother out and _go_ ,” Dad shouted over the flames, but Dean didn't need to be told twice. Not when he could almost see his brother as a baby, wrapped up in a blanket and crying as Dad shoved him into Dean's little arms. He could still hear his dad's first command from all those years ago.  
  
Dean's arms weren't little now, but Dean still grabbed the top blanket from the bed and gathered it up with his little brother in the middle. Then he lifted it all, blanket and brother, and ran for the door. Sam's fingers dug through his t-shirt into his skin but he didn't care. All he cared about was getting Sam out.  
  
The door opened and then they were out into the cold night. Dean ran past the car parked outside and kept running until he couldn't feel the heat against his back anymore. Only then did he turn around, Sam still tight in his grasp.  
  
Flames were visible through the doorway. Bright orange and yellows that made it hard to stare at, hard to believe they were there. Despite the brightness Dean couldn't make out his dad in the room. What the man had stayed behind for, he had no idea.  
  
Not when he'd given Dean the most important thing to get out of the room. Even with the blanket Sam was shivering now, shaking and trembling hard enough that Dean felt he'd lose his grip. “I got you,” Dean murmured, pulling Sam closer. “I got you, Sammy, s'okay, I promise.” Sam's head weakly turned to rest against Dean's shoulder, and suddenly Dean's legs refused to hold him up a moment longer. He slid to the ground as best he could, trying not to drop his little brother. The pavement was hard, rough and cold, and his bare feet were now making their pain known for his fast run against rocks and pavement.  
  
Sam was shuddering and gasping now for a completely different reason, hot tears on Dean's neck. “I got you,” Dean whispered. He buried his face in Sam's hair, and the smell of smoke made him shut his eyes. If he hadn't gotten up, if the stupid mattress hadn't been so lumpy...If, if, if. _If only if only the woodpecker sighed._  
  
Sirens were now heard faintly in the distance. In the not so distance people were shouting and emerging from their hotel rooms, awakened by the noise and heat. Couples and families were holding each other, tenderly reassuring themselves that everything would be all right.  
  
Dean's arms trembled with the strain as he clutched Sam close enough, hard enough to hurt, but Sam did nothing past cry silently into Dean's neck. Dean did nothing more than hang on to Sam like he was the last thing Dean had. He might've been, Dean didn't know. He didn't look beyond Sam.  
  
Then the bright flashing lights arrived, voices tried to speak to him, and through it all, a familiar voice called out to see his boys. _Dad_.  
  
It was only when that familiar voice was in front of him, saying, “I've got him, Dean, they need to see if he's hurt,” that Dean released Sam, and only then to their dad's care.  
  


* * *

  
  
John really, truly hated hospitals. They came attached with memories of blood and fear, two of the top things he hated most in life. He'd wanted to avoid this one, had remained in the room and grabbed their bags as fast as he could even for that purpose. The fire had come close to consuming one of them, the weapons bag, and he'd had to move fast to keep that from catching fire and exploding. He'd grabbed them all, somehow finding the strength to lift six heavy bags, then had run outside and shoved them into the car before the ambulance had arrived. Other people had been out, eyes on the flames instead of the car and the crazed man, so he'd hurried over to find his sons.  
  
One look at Dean, still clutching Sam with a wild-eyed intensity, and one look at Sam, shuddering and crying in his brother's arms, had brought the need to flee down to nothing. He'd managed to get Sam out of Dean's arms, then led his shell-shocked oldest to the car to follow the ambulance and Sam.  
  
God, _Sammy_.  
  
Dean was flipping channels right and left in the small waiting room. _Roseanne_ changed to _Sports Tonight_ and then to _Babylon 5_ , then through another fifty channels before popping right back to the ones they'd been to before. His eyes weren't wide anymore, but the blankness that resided there now scared John even more than the uncontrolled shock from earlier.  
  
They'd had a brief moment to see Sam as they hurried in through the ER doors nearly an hour before. He'd been on a cart, rolled in fast, and Sam had looked so young. Covered in a blanket, hospital grade, face pale and hair disheveled. He'd never seen his son look so lost. Not his determined son. Not his baby boy.  
  
And Dean, his dependable, cocky and tough son, had stared until Sam had disappeared behind double doors, then had fallen to his knees on the cold tiled floor like he hadn't been able to stand anymore. John had waved off any help and had taken Dean into his own arms and hands, had managed to get him up and onto a chair. Then the only thing John had been able to do was collapse next to him, and even the urge to move and pace had been bypassed.  
  
All he could do was hear Dean's voice waking him up, whispering in the night, growing in concern and volume, and opening his eyes to a nightmare that gripped him every November second. It terrorized him other nights, too, when he didn't get drunk enough to drown it out, didn't get wrapped up enough in a hunt to banish it.  
  
Dean made the sixty-eighth pass through the channels, no movement except for the occasional blink of his eyes and the constant push of his thumb on the button. John tried to think of the right thing to say, the thing Dean needed to hear. Sam would be fine (god _Sammy_ ), the burns wouldn't be bad if any at all. First degree, if at all. Dean had gotten him down fast, John had gotten him wrapped even faster.  
  
But the words wouldn't come. They kept sticking in his throat. He kept swallowing reflexively, trying to moisten his lips enough to say anything. Nothing happened, though. He rubbed his hand over his weary and stinging eyes and stared at his boots for a minute. He'd gone out to the car for them after Sam had been taken back. He'd tried to get Dean to put something on, but. His oldest was stubborn. Just like his mother and his old man.  
  
Just like his little brother, and it all kept coming back to Sam. His shut his eyes tight and felt them burn. No matter what he tried to think about, even _Mary_ for god's sakes, nothing could put Sam out of his mind. His youngest had only been sitting against the bed a handful of hours ago, sleepy but determined to know what was going on. To know that his dad was home okay. “God,” he murmured, but if He existed, He was out and not taking calls. Never had been, long as John had known Him.  
  
One more glance at Dean, soundless and staring blankly at the passing channels on the television, was more than enough for John. “Dean,” he began, just as the double doors to their right opened.  
  
“Mr. Winchester?”  
  
And just like that, Dean was moving, television off and remote tossed somewhere. He shot to his feet even as John quickly stood, but it was Dean who approached the doctor first. “Is he okay?”  
  
The doctor nodded. “He'll be just fine. Terrified more than hurt. But he's going to be fine.”  
  
Honestly, John would've preferred the hurt to terrified. Not his Sam.  
  
“He's going to be a little tender for awhile, but nothing that'll scar. Barely more than a sunburn; you acted quickly,” the doctor continued with a smile. Neither John nor Dean returned it.  
  
“I need to see him,” Dean said, already looking past the doctor. It looked almost like he was looking through the double doors to wherever Sam was.  
  
The doctor hesitated. No one but parents at this point, and the doctor was already smart enough to know how _that_ was going to go down with Dean. “How much longer will he have to stay?” John interrupted, voice nearly as rough as he felt.  
  
“He'll be released shortly,” the doctor assured. Another hour in the ER, then. “Your feet should really be looked at.”  
  
Okay, not nearly as smart as John had just given him credit for. If the doctor wouldn't let Dean back to see his brother, there was no way in hell Dean was going to take his advice. Especially when that suggestion had already been lobbed at him five times since they'd been in the ER. John hadn't pressed for him to do it then, not when Sam's fate hadn't been known. Now that Sam was okay, though, John pulled the trump card of 'dad'.  
  
“Last thing you need is to get an infection or something,” John rumbled. Dean finally moved his gaze from the door to his dad, objection and a hint of betrayal on his face. “Sure the doctor would be more than happy to clean you up fast beyond the doors,” John continued, giving Dean a look. _Only way beyond those doors to see Sam is to get yourself patched up, kiddo._  
  
Either John was getting psychic, or the look and words had been enough. Dean's eyes widened for a fraction of a second before he turned to the doctor. “Yeah, all right. Just, uh, don't make my dad wander all over the hospital to get to me and my brother, all right?”  
  
The doctor gave a tired, grateful smile. “He's not going to have to go any farther than across the hall.”  
  
Good. “We'll let Sam know that you're gonna get your feet taken care of, then,” John said. And maybe the cut above Dean's eye that he could see now: wasn't bleeding anymore, but after tonight, John wasn't taking chances. Not with either of his sons.  
  
The doctor held the doors open for them both before he led them down the hallway.


	3. Weary Soldiers

_Lay your weary head to rest  
Don't you cry no more  
"Carry On Wayward Son" - Kansas_

  
  
  
It was quiet, surprisingly, considering it was close to four in the morning. In John's experience, the worst and noisiest things happened in the middle of the night. Wendigo roaring in your ear, spirit knocking you around the room, being taken into the ER with doctors shouting around you. Kids being sick, too, now that he thought about it. Always got sick in the middle of the night.  
  
The doctor moved Dean towards a room on the right, but Dean was already looking to the left, where a curtain closed off the space. “You really should sit before you further hurt your feet-”  
  
“Just...just let me see him,” Dean begged, and John wasn't sure who was more surprised, the doctor or himself. Dean never begged. Never. Hadn't even begged when he was a kid for his mom to come back. Asked, certainly. Hadn't begged or pleaded or prayed.  
  
The doctor hesitated, and this time John pulled out the trump card of 'tall big man', and he used it on the doctor. “Just a minute; please just give him a minute.” Despite the kind words and polite asking, John made sure his real intent was in his face. Wouldn't be the first time he didn't listen to a doctor, or the first time he'd shoved one aside.  
  
The doctor seemed to realize it (or John was seriously psychic, which he highly doubted) and stepped aside to let Dean go. Dean immediately stepped in past the curtain, shoving it impatiently out of the way. The curtain had barely fallen back before John was pushing it aside. Dean wasn't the only one who wanted to see Sam.  
  
His youngest was on the white hospital bed, looking almost as pale as the sheets. His eyes weren't half-lidded or empty as his brother's had been, but wide awake and open, staring at his hands on top of the blanket. The sound of the curtain made him jerk up, and John could've sworn that his shoulders sank in relief when he looked between Dean and John. His hands fell to rest flat against the blankets, and one of them was bandaged. Both arms were bandaged as well, up to the blue hospital gown that looked far too large on his little son. His cheek had a small bandage on it as well.  
  
But it was his eyes that John saw before the rest, because they looked haunted. Not as wide as they had been, now that he'd seen his family. Still haunted, still wide enough that it wasn't truly natural.  
  
Still _scared_. And that made something deep in John's gut clench up tight and refuse to let go.  
  
Even as John watched, those eyes began to glisten, and Sam fought to keep his lower lip straight. “Hey Sammy,” Dean said, and the relief on his oldest's face was only succeeded by the concern for Sam.  
  
“Hey,” Sam croaked. Smoke inhalation, perfectly normal, but it still made John cringe.  
  
For the second time that night, John didn't know what to say, but he forced his lips to part anyway. “Hey kiddo,” he said softly. He searched his mind for other words to say to help.  
  
Even as he tried to think, though, Sam's eyes glistened at the two spoken words John had given. A lone tear rolled down his face, and he quickly brushed it away with his hand. The bandaged one, of course, and he hissed at the movement.  
  
That was all the incentive Dean needed to move. “Hey, hey, take it easy,” he said, moving to the side of the bed. “It's okay, Sammy. Just take it easy. You'll be out of here soon, promise. Hour or two, max. Okay?”  
  
Sam nodded quickly, keeping his head ducked down. Dean bit his lip, and they both looked lost. More lost than boys their age were supposed to be.  
  
Which meant it was time for the dad to step in. “Dean, go get your feet looked at,” he said. Sam looked up at that and gazed at Dean with a frown. Dean looked reluctant to move, but John kept his gaze firm. “Not going anywhere, but you need to get them cleaned up before we go,” John insisted.  
  
“Yes sir,” Dean said at last, moving away from Sam's bed. He did glance back before he stepped out into the hallway, and the long gaze between him and Sam said volumes that John didn't exactly understand. He'd never really understood everything between those two, and their silent talks were one of them.  
  
Guess John wasn't psychic after all.  
  
The doctor left with Dean, and Sam turned to John. “Are his feet okay?” he asked, throat still rough. “What happened?”  
  
Well enough to ask questions. John almost smiled when he pulled a chair up towards the side of Sam's bed. “Ran out with you, didn't put any shoes on. I don't really think he cares, though. Only thing he wanted was to get you out.”  
  
“He did,” Sam whispered, but the lack of strength behind it made John stop and look at his youngest. Sam was gazing at his hands again, both resting against the blankets. “He did,” he said again, and he sounded like he was trying to convince himself.  
  
And there was certainly nothing John could say to that, so he didn't. He kept quiet and simply sat beside his son, and for another little while, he kept the reason for all of this from his head. Because he knew damn right well what had caused this, and he even had a sinking suspicion of why. And neither were things he could even think about because he was truly that tired. He only had enough energy to focus on one thing, and right now, it was on the hospital and getting out with his boys patched up before they caught onto the insurance cards.  
  
God he hated hospitals.

* * *

  
  
  
They couldn't bandage his feet right. Well, not “right” in the manner of correct: it was done with professionalism and pristine gloves and the cuts were being cleaned and bandaged perfectly.  
  
But slowly. Even slower after the nurse had insisted on looking at the scrape on his forehead. And neither were done with any care. Not like Dad did or Sammy did and Dean once again glared down at the nurse at his feet. “Can you clean any faster?”  
  
The nurse glanced up in annoyance at Dean's fifth request, and normally, Dean would've upped the charm because hey, it got him out of there faster and _hey_ , hot nurse. But not tonight, and Dean couldn't have flirted if someone had put a gun to his head and told him to do what came almost as easy as breathing air.  
  
The only thing that came as easy as breathing air besides actually breathing was looking out for Sam.  
  
The nurse finally sighed and finally, _finally_ , finished cleaning. “Be careful when you walk on them,” she said, but it fell on deaf ears. Dean was already stepping off the bed and heading across the hall. His feet stung like he'd expected them to, but Dean merely waved it off as an annoyance and swatted the curtain aside.  
  
Only when Sam came into view did Dean feel like he could breathe again. His little brother had his legs dangling over the side of the bed, fingers tight in the sheets. He jerked his head towards the door, thin shoulders falling slightly when Dean appeared. _You okay?_ Dean asked with his eyes. Sam shrugged in a manner to say, _Sure_ , but his eyes dipped and fell away from Dean's. And that told Dean the opposite of okay.  
  
“Doctor said Sam should be ready to go in a little bit,” Dad said, bringing Dean's attention to him briefly. He looked as tired as everyone else looked, but still determined, still strong enough to handle what was going on.  
  
Good. Because Dean couldn't at that point. The only thing he could do was make his way over to Sam's side of the bed and stand.  
  
The curtain swished behind him and he twisted in front of Sam without thinking, Sam's soft inhale ringing in his ears. The doctor didn't seem to notice and instead spoke to their dad. “Just a few things I wanted to talk to you about treating burns and such, and then he'll be all set for discharge.”  
  
Like their dad didn't know how to handle burns. They all did, probably better than the asshole doctor did. The idiot had actually had the nerve to not let Dean back to see Sam, instead patronizing him into getting his feet checked out like a good little boy-  
  
Dean bit his lip hard and forced his fists to unclench. He wasn't mad at the doctor. The doctor had helped Sam, was just doing his damn job. Dean wasn't even really mad at all, but being mad was easier than being numb.  
  
Easier than being scared. He couldn't remember being this scared since their mom had died, and the image of Sam on the ceiling had him swallowing hard and shutting his eyes to keep them from burning. God.  
  
“I'll be back,” Dad was saying now, and Dean nodded on autopilot. Then Dad slipped out with the doctor to let the doctor do his spiel and left Dean alone to stay with Sam. The last time Dean had had Sam his little brother had wound up on the ceiling-  
  
Wasn't helping.  
  
Sam sniffled from behind him and Dean turned back around. Sam's shoulders were tight, his hands resting in his lap. His eyes were fixed on the ground, his feet just hanging instead of the impatient tapping against the bed they usually would've been doing.  
  
Dean found himself falling and sitting on the bed, suddenly exhausted. As soon as he was seated Sam scooted over and leaned against him, his good hand clutching Dean's shirt sleeve. Dean wasn't the only one who was scared, and he'd bet money that his dad was just as scared as everyone else.  
  
But at that point Dean didn't care about his dad. The only person that mattered was the one that he was carefully wrapping his arm around in an effort to not further hurt. Sam's fingers wound themselves even tighter in Dean's sleeve to the point of cutting off circulation, and Dean found himself having to avoid clutching the bandaged shoulder. Sam was there. He had Sam, and there was no way Sam could get taken if Dean had him.  
  
Neither of them looked at the ceiling.  
  


* * *

  
  
The drive was long. But Jim's place would be safe, safer than anything else John could think of. Bobby was busy off near the Canadian line, though John knew he'd turn around instantly the minute he heard about what had happened. Not soon enough that John would feel safe with his boys staying there, though. Not after what had happened.  
  
The fear turned to icy fury in his veins. That sonuvabitch had targeted Sam, _Sammy_ , his baby boy. John's Achilles heel, and the thing had known it. Because John had thought Sam was safe. Hadn't involved him in a lot of hunts lately, had kept him back on research duty and easy salt and burns. Nothing demonic.  
  
John glanced instinctively in the rear-view mirror. Dean was in the back for once, not taking what he said was his because he was older than Sam. The thought made him want to smile, but the muscles in his cheeks were too tightly coiled to even think about it.  
  
Sam looked exhausted. His eyes kept drooping, the adrenaline rush from earlier long gone. Still, Sam wouldn't let his eyes shut: he kept wrenching them back open, and the trace of fear that lingered in them made John clench the wheel even tighter. That sonuva _bitch_ -  
  
“Dad?”  
  
Dean's voice cut through the red haze John had allowed himself to get wrapped up in, and he forced himself to breathe. Getting angry wasn't going to do a goddamn thing. It wanted him angry, wanted him reckless so it could get another shot at Sam.  
  
Never again. _Never_ again.  
  
“Be there shortly,” John said when he was certain he'd calmed down. He glanced once more into the mirror and found Dean's confused face staring back. His oldest nodded after a moment and settled back into the seat next to Sam. He looked tired as hell too, but he was keeping his eyes open. His arm was wrapped around Sam like a bad movie date, except his hand was careful against the bandages. Sam was listing against him, still fighting off sleep.  
  
“You two wanna sleep while we're on the way?” John asked, even managing to not sound as angry and afraid as he felt. He felt out of control, everything out of his reach and there was nothing he could do to change that, but there was only so much he'd admit to anyone. Especially himself.  
  
Sam shook his head violently enough that John was sure he had to be dizzy. “M'fine,” he rasped, and John could've sworn Dean tightened his hand around his brother. Sam didn't even flinch.  
  
“Me too,” Dean replied when John's gaze switched to him.  
  
“Got another thirty minutes or so: it's a cat-nap at least,” John offered, but he wasn't surprised when both boys shook their heads. He'd figured as much. Wasn't like he was in the mood to sleep either, even though his body was craving it.  
  
Twenty-eight minutes later had them pulling up to Jim's place, where the lights were on. A lighthouse in the middle of the storm, sanctuary from the world. If they couldn't feel safe here, they'd never feel safe.  
  
Jim came out immediately, and brought with him even more lights. “The beds are all made up,” he said, handing one of the flashlights to Sam. Sam took it quickly with his good hand, and no one said anything about how the light wavered. Kid was tired, beyond exhausted.  
  
Terrified out of his mind, too, but John couldn't start down that road again. He'd gotten upset before, gotten sad and scared. Now all he'd get was angry.  
  
“Your room's up where it always is, boys,” Jim continued. “New sheets and everything.”  
  
“Two beds?” Dean asked. Jim nodded. “Thanks.”  
  
“I'll be just down the hall in the kitchen,” John said as Dean and Sam headed for the house. Neither one stopped, but he knew they'd heard. They'd come get him if they needed him, if something happened. John intended to be there for anything did happen anyways, but still. They'd needed to hear it, he thought.  
  
Jim trailed behind them all and locked up the door tightly after everyone was inside. “Seals are up, salt's laid down, and the entire ground was consecrated with holy water at the beginning of the month,” he said as he turned to John. “Now tell me what happened.”


	4. The Long Night

_Tossin' turnin', nightmares burnin'  
Dreams of swords in hand  
Sailing ships, the viking spits  
The blood of father's land  
"Kings and Queens" - Aerosmith_

  
  
  
A psychiatrist would have a field day with all three of them. Dean especially, considering the way he was. Kid was watching his little brother like if he took his eyes off of him, Sam would disappear.  
  
Azazel could do it, just to mess with him. It'd be easy at this point: an emotional hunter was a sloppy hunter.  
  
One look through the windows downstairs told Azazel that yep, Johnny boy had figured out what the demon had done. He was exhausted but damn if he wasn't angry. Furious. Already ready to fight the good fight, no matter what it cost.  
  
His wife was an old wound but Sammy, Sammy was a fresh one that had ripped off the not quite healed scab from the old. Hmm, metaphorical: Azazel didn't even know he could do that, or do it so well.  
  
He glanced back up at the bedroom window and found both boys coiled up like tightly wound springs. One tiny move and sproing, all over the place like a...well. Tightly wound spring. Okay, so maybe he wasn't that good at metaphors. He was good at wreaking havoc, though, and he didn't mind saying so.  
  
Sam was terrified and not falling asleep. Dean was terrified and not falling asleep. John was angry but also refusing to fall asleep. Exhausted, all three of them. Made it easier to play with them, except. Well. Azazel hadn't counted on Dean sticking with his brother as much as he was doing so. He _had_ intended for Dean and John to wake up and get Sam out, to scare them all out of their wits. It had worked admirably, and now John was gunning for him again, except high on emotions.  
  
It'd make him easy to deal with. Wouldn't be as perceptive. He'd heard a saying once, that when you got emotional, that was all you got.  
  
“Scared now, Johnny boy?” Azazel asked into the night. “Angry? I can take your little boy. Any time I want, I can take him from you.” John hadn't known who he was dealing with. Not until last night. John had thought he was better than Azazel, though he could trump the best damn demon of them all. He'd been living in a fool's paradise, seeing himself smarter and more clever than Azazel.  
  
Well he'd been wrong. Almost dead-son wrong. Now John knew, and it was up to John what happened next. If John came after him, then Azazel would be more than ready. It'd been a fun game of cat and mouse for some years, but the cat was just annoyed now. The game had lost its fun, and Azazel wasn't a patient demon.  
  
Because he'd been waiting and using up his patience for millennia, centuries, decades, to win the bigger game but c'mon, enough was enough already. He was so damn close to the end, could see the shining finish line, but he had other ways to win. He didn't need Sam. Sammy wasn't special. He could be, certainly, but he didn't have to be _the_ special one.  
  
Guess it was down to John to see who would admit the other one had won, and Azazel didn't actually know if he could say that out loud. He'd never had to, and he didn't think he should update his vocabulary to include humility and surrender now.  
  


* * *

  
  
Dean didn't honestly believe he'd fall asleep. In fact, he was totally okay with never falling asleep again. He was terrified of what would happen if he fell asleep and wasn't awake to stop.  
  
He was even more terrified of what he'd see happen in his sleep.  
  
His eyes burned and he shut them, just to give them a small reprieve. When they kept burning he blinked them wide awake, wiping at them. God, why wouldn't they stop burning? He'd had his moment of breakdown, enough was enough. Sammy needed him.  
  
His eyes stung again, this time more painfully so, and he shut them tight. His palms he pressed deep into his sockets, wondering what the hell was wrong with them. Maybe a little water would help? He opened his eyes once more to make his way to the bathroom. The smoke just wouldn't let up-  
  
He froze, half a second too late, and spun his gaze to the ceiling. Sam was bleeding from his center this time, face pale, eyes and mouth wide in a silent plea and scream. The fire, slowly licking at his legs, quickly roared to life and began to consume him. Dean tried to scream for help but the smoke choked him, keeping him down. Above him, Sam quickly began to disappear in the bright flaming fire and Dean couldn't move. God, where was Dad, where was Pastor Jim, someone, anyone, just _help_ -  
  
Then he was gasping and sitting up in the quiet room. His eyes shot to the ceiling, but there was no fire, no blood, no Sam. He swung his gaze to the other bed where Sam was sleeping.  
  
No, not sleeping. His eyes were drooping, painfully so, but Sam kept jerking awake, his breathing shaky. His gaze was caught on the ceiling, completely unaware of Dean and his nightmare.  
  
Dean shivered in the cool night and ran a hand across his face. Guess he'd fallen asleep after all. The alarm clock across the room shone bright red neon numbers, stating it was two hours past what Dean had thought it was.  
  
And Sam was still just as awake as he'd been before Dean had succumbed to exhaustion.  
  
“Sammy?” Dean called softly. Not like the kid wasn't gonna hear him, but still. No need to startle him.  
  
Sam still jerked slightly at the voice but kept his eyes on the ceiling. Stucco, would probably hurt if you were pressed up against it and Dean was _not_ following that train of thought. Not at all. “Sammy, you need to sleep,” Dean said hesitantly. Sam pursed his lips but said nothing. Right, wasn't like Dean had been fond of the idea either. “Sam-”  
  
“No,” Sam whispered. He tried to clear his throat but his second attempt to talk sounded just as raspy as the first. “No, I can't.”  
  
“At least close your eyes for a little bit and rest; dude, you're exhausted, I promise I won't let you fall asleep-”  
  
“ _No_ , I...I mean I _can't_ , Dean,” Sam blurted out. Dean could hear him swallowing from the other bed. “I...all I see is this, this _face_ and I'm getting pulled up onto the ceiling and I c-can't _move_ and I can't scream either and I'm trying to yell and all I see...” He coughed over what Dean knew was a sob and whispered, “All I see is you and Dad below me, asleep, and I can't get down.”  
  
Kid was exhausted, scared out of his mind, and possibly bordering on hysterical. Dean could totally understand that, and his eyes began to burn again. There was no hesitation as he slid from his bed and moved over to Sam's. The bed was a twin but Dean didn't care. The kid was still tiny and even if the bed had been a cereal box Dean still would've come over.  
  
Sam was in his arms less than a second later, shivering in a ball, his knees pressing uncomfortably against Dean's ribs. He tried to focus on that but found he couldn't, and all he could think of was Sam in his arms, shivering as they watched the hotel room go up in flames.  
  
 _God_.  
  
“It can't pull you away if I'm here,” Dean said, and he sounded strangled to his own ears. “I got you, big brother's here, and I'm not letting go Sammy. You hear me? I'm not letting go.”  
  
Sam shivered and burrowed his face even further into the crook of Dean's neck. Dean felt like he was eight again, Sammy four, scared after a nightmare and crawling into Dean's bed. Then Sam's bandages brushed against Dean, foreign and rough, and Dean wasn't sure this was a nightmare he could face down for Sam.  
  
Or for himself.  
  
He didn't know if Sam even slept that night. Dean didn't fall asleep again, instead watching the alarm clock numbers change until almost eight in the morning.  
  


* * *

  
  
Jim sighed, looking just as weary now as John felt. “God in heaven,” he said quietly. “It does truly sound as if you got too close for the demon's comfort.”  
  
It was and John knew it. He'd angered it, pissed it off by saving the woman and her baby. So the sonuvabitch had come after _his_ baby. He shut his eyes and reached blindly for the coffee mug in front of him. It was cold now, didn't taste right anymore, but he drank it down anyways.  
  
As soon as he set it down he felt Jim take it and heard the sound of his friend's chair sliding back. A safe place for his sons and enough coffee to last all night: the man _was_ a godsend.  
  
The mug was pressed into his hands, warm again, though it did nothing to help with the cold fury that had frozen his insides. For a long moment, he didn't say anything, and neither did Jim. Just silence, trying to absorb the story John had unfolded through the night hours.  
  
God but he was tired. He hadn't slept in so long, and it was beginning to take its toll. He wanted to be able to sleep and know that he could, that the damn thing wasn't coming after his family. He wanted to sleep for a week without being disturbed.  
  
Hell, for all his wishing, he'd wish to go back nearly fifteen years to when Mary had slept beside him and Dean had slept between them after a nightmare.  
  
“What will you do?”  
  
John opened his eyes and tried to wipe away the grit and exhaustion from them. “Will you hunt it down now?” Jim asked. “It's hit your family twice.”  
  
“I know that,” John muttered, and if he sounded moody, he was goddamn well entitled to it. He'd almost lost his _son_ less than a day ago because of that filthy fu-  
  
“So I ask you: what will you do?” Jim patiently asked again. John sent a weary glare towards his friend but like most pastors John had met through the years, Jim didn't seem to mind. If anything, he seemed like he'd been waiting for it.  
  
And for some reason, John's anger within him stirred at that. “What do you want me to do here?” John said, trying to keep his voice down. If the boys had managed to sleep he wasn't going to wake them. “I know you're fishing for an answer but I don't _have_ one. I don't goddamn well _know_ what I should do next! It needs to be hunted, it needs to die. That much I know I'll do.”  
  
“Will you?” Jim asked again, and John began to rise. “I don't say this to make you angry, but for the love of God, _listen_ to yourself. Your son was attacked by this demon because you angered it. And I know that deep down, deep inside, you know it left Sam alive for a reason.”  
  
And _that_ was the truth that John couldn't deny. He found himself falling back into his chair, bracing his elbows on the table to cradle his head in his hands. He'd been thinking it for the past few hours, thinking of Sam, alive, singed but not cut or bleeding. The demon had left him alive on purpose. Sam had been a message, plain and clear: _I took what's yours before, I can take it again, and you can't stop me._  
  
John knew he could stop it, though. God he was so _close_ , and he knew its patterns, he knew how to hunt it.  
  
“This was a warning, John,” Jim continued, more gently this time. “One that you should take to heart.” Even as John began to answer Jim pressed on, “If not for your sake then theirs.” He didn't need to motion towards the stairs for John to know who he meant. “The demon could've killed Sam without your even knowing it but it didn't. It's giving you a choice.”  
  
“There _is_ no choice-”  
  
“That's bullshit and you know it,” Jim suddenly snapped, and the unfamiliar curse from his friend cut John off. “You have a choice, John. You can walk away. You do _not_ have to hunt this thing down.”  
  
The anger returned with a passion. “And let it get away with Mary's murder?”  
  
“I believe that your wife would rather have her sons live than for them to die the same death she did,” Jim said, voice even. John gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles were white, and they glared at each other.  
  
Finally Jim looked away with a sigh. “I can't tell you what to do. In the end you'll make your own choice.” He paused before looking back at John, a plea in his voice. “But by God, I hope it's one that you can live with. For your sake and theirs, because you didn't see the looks on their faces when they came in tonight. And you didn't see the one on yours.”  
  
John let out a deep breath as Jim stood and left. No, he hadn't seen his own face when he'd walked in, but he remembered the fear curled tight into his belly, the fury that the demon would dare to touch his family, and the exhaustion that had seemed to permanently settle into his bones. Even now, the small spike of fury was dissipating and leaving him wearier than before.  
  
But Jim didn't understand. The demon had taken his Mary, their _mother_ , and Sam didn't even remember her. He knew that Dean tried to tell his youngest stories, had a few pictures to share, and Sam greedily lapped it all up. But it wasn't the same, and the demon had to pay for that.  
  
And they did good work. They saved people. There was a man who'd probably gotten home already and had a wife and baby to get back to. That was because of John and what he did.  
  
Still, he found himself glancing up the stairs to where his own family was. Because of what John had done, he'd almost lost his son. The demon had made its warning clear, couldn't have made it any clearer even if it'd stamped BACK OFF across Sam's forehead.  
  
John could take it down. It was running scared, concerned for its life because John had almost taken it down yesterday. He knew that with a little more time, he could definitely kill it. What it would cost him to do it, though, was too high. He'd never thought he'd lose his sons in his fight to kill what had taken Mary.  
  
The urge to go out and hunt it down, now, was strong enough that John ached to have a gun in his hands. The urge to protect his sons was even stronger, though, and growing by the moment.  
  
But if he did that, he would have to, what, let it go? There wasn't any way to do both, and John realized that Jim had been right. He did have a choice. He could hunt it or he could let it go.  
  
He took a sip from the luke-warm coffee and cradled it between his hands. The kitchen was silent save for the clock behind him, ticking away softly. A glance over his shoulder said it was almost eight-thirty. He needed to go check on the boys, see if they were sleeping, and tell them...  
  
Tell them what? What he was going to do? John didn't have a clue. He had two choices, possibly more, but he was pretty sure they boiled down to the main two. Hunt it or let it go. He could technically do either one.  
  
The real question was, _could_ he really let it go?


	5. It's All or Nothing

_All or nothing winner take it all away  
In for the kill there's blood on the water it's flowing your way  
Now I don't know nothing but I know it's a long way down  
The king of the hill you reach for the sky you're losing your crown  
"Gotta Let It Go" - Def Leppard_

  
  
  
  
The door opened down the hall, and John slowly swung his gaze over. He wasn't surprised to see both Dean and Sam coming out, Dean a little ahead of his brother. Always the protector. But it wasn't just Sam's life on the line, it was Dean's too, and who was supposed to protect him?  
  
John answered his subconscious by taking a sip of the coffee. “You boys sleep at all?” he rumbled.  
  
“About as much as you did,” Dean replied. Right, not at all then.  
  
John moved his gaze down and past Dean to where Sam hung behind him, a dutiful shadow that still looked as pale as a ghost. “Sammy?” he asked, his voice softer.  
  
Sam glanced up and shook his head. “Not really,” he whispered.  
  
Jim chose that moment to reappear in the room, looking much more calm than he had before. Of all the times John had wished he was his friend, he'd never been more jealous of his ability to be kind and caring and, god, _calm_. “You boys must be hungry,” Jim said with a smile.  
  
Sam didn't say anything. “Maybe a little,” Dean said, but he kept his eyes on Sam as he answered.  
  
Time for Dad to start pulling everyone together. “Food'll do us all good,” he said, rising. “Let me help you, Jim.”  
  
Jim nodded after a consideration, and John brought his coffee mug over to the sink. “Go ahead and take a seat,” John threw over his shoulder. He didn't have to look to know that they'd both sit, and that Sam would take the seat closest to Dean. He could trust that much.  
  
And if he looked back now, he knew he'd see the same tired, fearful gaze on both of their faces, and at that point, he couldn't do it.  
  
“Have you made any decisions?” Jim asked quietly, his voice masked by the banging of pots and pans to get to the sheet pan he wanted.  
  
John silently took the box he was handed – pancake mix – and shook his head. “I don't know,” he said softly.  
  
Jim gave him a sharp glance, but John kept going. “I don't honestly know what to do,” he admitted. “I feel like either way, I'll lose. If I chase it, I could hurt them.”  
  
“More,” Jim said, but his eyes were no longer narrowed in frustrated anger. “Hurt them more.”  
  
Even John's anger couldn't be found anymore. He hadn't been this weary since...since...  
  
Mary. And god but Sammy looked so much like his mother sometimes John ached, and never more than he did then. He clutched the edge of the counter to steady himself and closed his eyes.  
  
“You're afraid that by letting it go, though, that it could come back for Sam,” Jim finished when John couldn't. John slowly nodded.  
  
The clatter of the pan being set on the stove-top at least filled the silence of the room. More bowls pulled out, plastic bouncing against other items, and John was able to breathe again. Warm, sunny kitchen. Not a room filled with smoke, fire the only light to see by. The only thing you can see for hours when it's burned into your retinas.  
  
He'd thought, almost fifteen years ago when this had all began, that the end fight would be him against the demon, fighting it out in blood and maybe a spell or two, and one of them would walk away from the other's corpse. And John had always figured he'd be the one walking away.  
  
But not like this. He'd have to drop it all, keep to a few small hunts, make it clear that the demon was no longer what he was looking for. Or god, maybe not hunt at all anymore. John didn't know if he could live like that. There was a sense of satisfaction, a part of the marine he'd always be that needed to help save people. He couldn't ignore all of that.  
  
His family were the ones that needed saving now though. And he damn well knew that this was the end fight, that there wasn't going to be blood and guts flying with bullets and Latin. Now it was about the quiet, simple choices, two of them, and what John decided would change it all.  
  
No pressure. Of course not. And now all he'd done was talk himself into a circle and give himself no answers.  
  
“Dad?”  
  
John opened his eyes and turned around towards his son. Sam still looked scared, like he was fighting off sleep. Still fighting, though, refusing to give up. “There's protection, right? Here, against...anything?” he asked softly, rubbing at his eyes. He looked all of two again, sleepy and scared after a nightmare where the monsters hadn't been real. He wasn't supposed to look like that when he was only a few years off from being a man.  
  
“Maybe pancakes aren't a good idea,” Dean said, a small smile on his face that John only saw him give to his brother. “Sammy'll face-plant in the syrup.”  
  
Sam swung his gaze over to his brother and, after a moment, stuck his tongue out at him. Dean let his smile slide up to a grin for just a minute, and for that minute, it was just them, no demons, nothing except them with pancakes.  
  
Safe inside the wards that Jim had put up. That's why they were safe and able to breathe, able to have a small slice of normal. To relax and even _smile_.  
  
And suddenly, silently, John had his answer.  
  
“There's wards up,” John said softly, giving a tired smile to his boys. “Nothing can get in. Not while I'm here. I promise.”  
  
Sam slowly nodded, and with the release of tension came the yawn he'd been holding back. “Pancakes are going to take a little bit,” Jim said, speaking up at last. “Why don't you boys go lay down for just a little bit longer?”  
  
That would work. That would give John enough time to do what he needed to do. He was running on his last reserves, but even the thought of it was giving him one final spark of adrenaline. He could do this.  
  
He _had_ to do this.  
  
“That's a good idea,” he said. “Jim'll get you when breakfast is ready.”  
  
They didn't even give him a second glance, just headed back up the stairs, with Dean behind Sam this time to make sure his stumbling brother didn't fall. As soon as they were up the stairs, though, Dean was in front of him to step into the room first. The door shut, and John shut his eyes for a moment. Only a moment, and it was all he had to spare.  
  
“John?”  
  
When he opened his eyes again, he was ready. “I need a lighter,” he said.  
  
This was the end fight.  
  


* * *

  
  
This, right here, was the beginning of it all.  
  
He had no idea what John had decided. Frankly, Azazel wasn't in love with the fact that he'd had to sit and babysit him for so long because honestly, he had a special gun to find, people to kill. Little things but he enjoyed his work. Workaholic, he knew it, but hey, he was reigning champion for Demon of the Year for the past several centuries. Wasn't about to lose his title now.  
  
Which meant he was going to have to sit here for just a little bit longer to see what Johnny-boy was gonna do. Because Azazel knew he'd made up his mind. Little boys shipped back to the safety of their room, and John off with an air of determination that Azazel half admired, half hated. He made for a fun game but John was only as much fun as Azazel was supposed to let him be. It wasn't supposed to be Dickless leading the way.  
  
Okay, so he was still a little bitter over the last night with the woman and the baby. Whatever.  
  
He waited about twenty minutes more before something finally happened. John emerged from the safe house (and some of those wards were pretty decent: too bad they weren't all over the church, too) and stepped straight out into the open. No weapon on him, from what Azazel could see. He headed for the car and rummaged in the trunk for a minute, then slammed the lid shut and turned around. Very untidy stack of papers in his hand, but the size made up for the disorganization. John stepped out even further into the open and stood in the middle of the drive, stack of papers in his hand, unreadable expression on his face.  
  
This was...interesting. Azazel was honestly curious. Well, okay, so maybe he could stand to keep the game rolling with John for a little bit longer. “This is why you're so much fun,” Azazel murmured from his hiding place. “You just keep bringing the surprises.”  
  
For a long moment, John didn't say anything. Azazel waited: man didn't have much patience. Up to him what happened here.  
  
To Azazel's surprise, John stayed silent longer than he'd expected. When he spoke, it was in a firm, yet quiet tone. “All right, you sonuvabitch,” he said. He looked around as if waiting for Azazel to emerge, yet was nonplussed when the demon didn't. “Here's how it goes. Because all I want to do is put a bullet between your eyes and watch the light fade from your eyes. And then set you on fire because, well, fair's fair,” and the grin he gave didn't look very cheery.  
  
And here he'd thought they were friends, working in the same business for all these years. Azazel was hurt, truly. He knew feelings were supposed to develop in the workplace but he'd never expected _this_. Really. How cruel and barbaric. And all Azazel had done was try to invite him to a barbeque.  
  
Honestly. Some thanks he got.  
  
John was fingering the papers now, looking torn despite being so determined. Even more interesting. “But I can't,” he said, and his second, “I can't,” was much quieter. The grim smile was long gone now. “My sons...they're all I have left. And damn you, this was between you and me, that's what was supposed to happen, you and _me_ , not-”  
  
“Ah, but all's fair in love and war,” Azazel said, loud enough that his voice would drift like a whisper. John stiffened, and Azazel could _feel_ his urge to reach for a weapon. Not that Azazel was in sight, or that it would've even done any good, but he would've put good money on John putting a bullet in him just because he could.  
  
Instead his jaw tightened, and he was going to make a dentist somewhere really happy if he kept grinding. “Right. Thought that might be your response. Which is why this is mine. All this, right here?” He raised the papers that almost threatened to fall out of his hand. “All the research I've ever done. This is what led me to you after all these years.”  
  
And the game just kept getting more interesting. Azazel leaned forward, intrigued.  
  
A second of digging in his pocket had John producing a lighter. “I'm willing to burn it all,” and the sincerity behind his voice had Azazel even more caught up than before. “And there's no way I could go after you without all of this. I'll walk away. No stalemates, just...over.” And damn if he didn't still look pained as he said it, but.  
  
He was really going to do it. Really, truly, going to do it. “I'll be damned all over again,” Azazel breathed.  
  
“This isn't all on my side,” John continued, and _there_ was the anger Azazel had been waiting for. “You leave me and my family alone from here on out. I know a demon's word is its bond. These don't get burned until I have your word that you and I, we're completely done. You'll never touch my family again in any way.”  
  
Azazel was tempted to let him sweat it. To leave him hanging with no answer, even though he damn well knew Azazel was there. The temptation lingered...and then drifted away. He had other things to do and he'd wasted enough time with the Winchesters. Sammy wasn't the only special kid. And things would go a lot smoother without a certain hunter crimping his style.  
  
He wasn't giving in, not by a long shot, because John had broken. He'd been forced to make the choice, and he'd decided to pack it in. Even losing Sammy for good, Azazel had still won. John had been defeated, and Azazel smirked. He was sure that John would see this as a victory of some sort, but John could do whatever he wanted to sleep better at night.  
  
Azazel was definitely in no danger of losing his Demon of the Year award.  
  
“I consent to the terms,” Azazel said. “You burn your scraps and pieces you've collected like a dutiful boy scout, and I'll never darken your doorstep. Wherever you decide to place that particular doorstep,” he even graciously threw in.  
  
John lit the lighter but didn't place it to the papers right away. “And you'll leave my boys alone, wherever _their_ doorstep happens to be?” he added.  
  
Azazel grinned that went from ear to ear. God but he was going to miss playing with John: cunning, not stupid. Knew how to cover all the sides. “Your boys are safe from me, I swear to you. Soon as the papers burn.”  
  
John hesitated for one more moment, then deliberately brought the lighter to the edge of the papers. He still looked torn, watching all his precious work burn, but he tossed the papers on the ground to burn. Ashes to ashes, and it was done. “It was a pleasure, John,” he called as he slipped away. Winchesters were off limits now.  
  
A little disappointment, sure: he'd been looking forward to calling Sam forward. But he had a few other prospectives: Jake looked like he was aiming for the military. And there was the emotionally fragile time-bomb that was Max...

* * *

  
  
  
As soon as Dean led Sam back down to the breakfast he knew something was up. They hadn't fallen asleep, but the extra time to rest had helped a little. He'd even closed his eyes, Sam's breath puffing against his face. Enough that the constant burning sensation had died for a little bit longer.  
  
But as soon as they came down and their dad wasn't there Dean felt himself tense up. And god but it hurt with the constant tension he'd been feeling already. “Where's Dad?” Sam asked, and he sounded so young that it physically hurt Dean to hear it.  
  
Pastor Jim bit his lip, and Dean reached out to grab the back of the chair. Oh god, what now? “Checking the wards?” Dean asked, aiming for casual and falling flat on his ass.  
  
The response, “I don't know,” was even worse than any of Dean's assumptions. “He asked to be left alone when he headed outside.”  
  
If anything, Sam paled even more than before, and when he wavered both Dean and Pastor Jim reached out to steady him. “Outside?” Sam whispered. “D-Did he take a weapon, or did he-”  
  
“Just snagging something from the trunk,” Dad's voice called as he stepped calmly into the kitchen. Dean found himself sagging in relief. Then Pastor Jim's suspicious look he gave their dad as he walked to the table pushed the relief into tension, and goddammit, Dean couldn't keep _doing_ this.  
  
“What's going on?” he asked bluntly. Both Dad and Pastor Jim looked at him, startled, but Sam leaned back towards him. Guess Dean wasn't the only one who'd thought something was up.  
  
Dad sighed and glanced down at his plate. “Dean-”  
  
“No, don't give me that,” and now it was Sam looking up at him, surprised, because Dean wasn't the one that gave their dad crap and argued like this. It was always Sam that argued, but there almost hadn't been a Sam, and Dean was helpless to stop the burning in his eyes from becoming honest to god tears. “Don't...don't try and tell me something's not going on because you two were talking about decisions about Sam and whatever the hell did this, I know you were, and then you just leave to get something out of the trunk that has, what, nothing to do with it-”  
  
“Dean,” Sam whispered, and Dean tried to pull it together at the fear and tears in his little brother's own voice. He couldn't have said who was the more shocked of the two men before him, but it was his dad who recovered first.  
  
“There was a decision,” Dad said quietly, and he spoke again before Dean could even let his words imprint in his mind. “But it's been made. We're done.”  
  
Pastor Jim went from shocked to stunned, and Dean didn't understand why. Done with breakfast? Done with the trunk? Done-  
  
And then his jaw dropped, and he had to find the back of the chair again. No. There was no way.  
  
Dad must've seen it in his face, which, yeah, it was probably pretty hard to miss, and he nodded slowly. “I was up all night,” he continued. “And...I almost lost you both. One way or another, however that night could've ended, I would've wound up losing you both, and...” Dad swallowed and suddenly Sam swayed, and it was all Dean could do to hang onto Sam as his little brother finally caught on.  
  
“Dad-?”  
  
“We're done,” Dad said, his voice even rougher sounding compared to Sam's soft gasp. “I can't, won't lose you boys. As much as I want your mother to rest in peace knowing that thing is gone, I know she'd never be able to rest if something happened to one of you. And neither would I,” he added.  
  
For a long moment, Dean didn't think he could breathe. They were done. Just like that, and they were done.  
  
Then their dad smiled, really truly smiled for the first time in what felt like years, and Dean knew he was still crying as he tried to return it but god, if this didn't warrant crying he didn't know what did.  
  
It was over and they were _done_.  
  
“Dad?” Sammy whispered, and his little brother looked almost hysterical, his breath hitching. Dean pulled him back to hold him tight, and then Dad was coming around and holding them both, and the pancakes were getting cold and Dean's emotions were all over the place. His lips said he was supposed to smile, his eyes said he was supposed to cry, and his heart was beating out of order.  
  
So he held Sam close and let Sam cling to him and let their dad hold them all together.  
  
It was done.  
  
  
  


_It's a bright horizon and I'm awakin' now  
Oh I see myself in a brand new way  
The sun is shinin'  
The clouds are breakin'  
'Cause I can't lose now, there's no game to play  
"Don't Look Back" - Boston_


	6. Epilogue

There were days where he honestly didn't believe it. He kept expecting to have to pack his bag and head for the car, sit in the back seat and try to read and pretend they weren't going to get dragged around to nine different states in the next week.  
  
But so far, it was true. So far, their dad hadn't gone back on his word.  
  
They weren't done hunting. Dad had parked them near Chicago, almost equal distance to Pastor Jim and Bobby. The Windy City held a lot of opportunities for hunting, like poltergeists, skin-walkers, run of the mill spirits. Lots of things to do and hunt.  
  
Nothing demon-related, though. And nothing related to...  
  
Sam shut his eyes and reached out to grip the comforter beneath him. Hard. Couldn't fly to the ceiling if he was attached to the ground, and his eyes flew open, darting first to the ceiling to ensure that no, he wasn't on it, then to each corner of the room. He kept expecting to see yellow eyes gleaming at him, even two months later and even with their dad's assurance that yes, it was over and done. Yes, the demon couldn't break its word.  
  
All nice and good, but Sam just couldn't believe it. Even though he knew it was a bound law in the demonic world, he just...couldn't. Not yet. Maybe not ever.  
  
So far, though, no demonic issues, no visits to the ceiling. There were wards everywhere, salt set permanently in the grooves of the wooden floor, and something called a devil's trap that Bobby had given Dad when he'd found out about that night in the motel. All were to make sure they stayed safe. Sam stayed safe.  
  
The only reason Sam was sleeping at night at all, though, was one big brother.  
  
The door downstairs banged open and shut, and he could hear Dean talking with their dad. Sam carefully let go of the comforter and turned back to his book. One he was actually going to have to finish, because they weren't moving. Sam might very well be able to graduate from this high school, and he finally relaxed enough to focus on the text.  
  
 _The thesis contains an entire chapter on the problem of solipsism, a problem raised by the fact that in any human experience of the world, the world is always experienced from an individual perspective or “finite centre”. An individual's mental life consists in a changing series of such finite centres, and there is no guarantee that his centres will harmonize with others or even with themselves. There is thus no guarantee that one's experience or self will be understood by others-_  
  
“'The Cambridge Companion to T.S.Eliot'?”  
  
Sam laid the book down on the bed. Dean snorted in amusement from the doorway before coming into Sam's room. His own room, not his and Dean's. His very own room.  
  
That didn't stop him from sometimes hiding in Dean's room for the day when his brother just happened to be home from work, or Dean to barge in unannounced to Sam's room. Neither minded the other's being there. In fact, Sam was pretty certain that Dean felt better with Sam in his vision, probably as much as Sam felt when he knew Dean was in the room.  
  
His and Dean's 'centres' were harmonizing just fine. Then again, they'd always been off in a world of their own, according to their dad. Created their own centre that was uniquely theirs.  
  
Still, that didn't mean that they weren't brothers. Sam sent Dean a raised eyebrow. “I'm glad you could read it from that distance; you know, since you're getting so old and your eyes don't work anymore.”  
  
“Written by a guy named Moody,” Dean said, ignoring Sam magnificently. “Huh. No wonder you like it.”  
  
Dean was close enough that Sam didn't have to stretch all that much to kick him. Dean merely laughed and flopped down at the end of Sam's bed. “What the hell kind of book is that, though, seriously?”  
  
“It's for my English literature course,” Sam said, and it made him smile just at the thought of it. AP English course, all his own. His scores from all his other schools had impressed his current school, his _permanent_ school, enough that they'd let him into the AP English course one grade level above his own.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes at that, but Sam knew that small grin on his brother's face. It was the one that said, “I'm proud of you,” and “Truly impressed,” and it made Sam's own smile grow even wider.  
  
“Thank god I didn't have to read that for my classes,” was what Dean said out loud. “It looks boring.”  
  
“Not really. Not as boring as that old dusty compendium from Bobby does.”  
  
Dean frowned. “What old dusty compendium?”  
  
“You didn't see it? That huge thing on the table?”  
  
“It's a huge box, Sam. I didn't look inside. What else is in there?”  
  
Sam merely raised his eyebrows and let them answer for him. Dean's own eyes got comically large. “That's the only thing in the box? That's _it_?”  
  
“And last I heard, Dad wants _you_ to help him with it tonight, because I have homework,” Sam said, and Dean's eyes went from wide to narrow in a split second.  
  
“Totally not fair. I don't understand any of that mumbo-jumbo crap.”  
  
Sam shrugged, but he still grinned. God, he couldn't believe he was able to think about hunting and smile at the same time. This type of hunting he didn't mind. This was all easy stuff, nothing dangerous. Nothing...nothing demonic.  
  
He swallowed hard and covered it with a cough. “Yeah, well, I don't either,” he said, pretending to roll his eyes. The ceiling was empty and smooth, and Sam wasn't anywhere near it. He scanned the corners quick before turning back to his brother.  
  
Dean was watching him with a knowing look, his own smile gone. “Sammy,” he said gently, and the single word and gaze said more than Sam's name. _You're gonna be fine_ and _It's not coming to get you_ and, more importantly, _I'm right here_.  
  
Sam let out a shaky sigh and ran a hand through his hair. What little had singed off had grown back, but it still felt sometimes like it was all burning away. “I know,” he said. “I just...”  
  
Dean rolled up to standing and stood beside Sam's nightstand. Nightstand, dresser, bed, closet. Even a desk that Dean had found for him, someone at the garage he worked with who'd been looking to get rid of it. Most of the wood pieces didn't match: Sam didn't care. It was all his. His own room.  
  
His very safe room. Nothing could get in without Sam's permission, because the room was his.  
  
“Sammy.”  
  
Sam looked away from the furniture and back up to his brother. Dean looked calm and strong, but Sam could see the fear in his eyes as he spoke. “Dad made sure it's not ever coming back. I swear, Sammy. You're gonna be okay, _we're_ gonna be okay.”  
  
He didn't look as sure of his own words as he'd sounded saying them, though. His voice was strong, but his face was still full of fear and worry.  
  
Guess he wasn't the only one who wasn't banking fully on a demon's word being solid gold, then.  
  
“I know,” Sam said, trying to sound certain but winding up halfway between nervous and trembling. Dean reached out and caught his shoulder, pulled him in, and Sam leaned against his brother's torso. The position was awkward, Dean's sharp hip bone was pressed into his arm, and even two months later, Dean's hand on Sam's shoulder still caused a twinge of pain.  
  
He didn't care. Dean was there, and that was all that mattered. Wards could be broken, salt could be brushed away, and the devil's trap could be detoured around.  
  
But Dean? Dean was his unfailing constant. Dean wouldn't let Sam down. Not ever.  
  
The embrace didn't last for long, but it didn't need to. Dean headed out towards the door, looking calm again. This time, when he glanced back at Sam, his face reflected it as well. “Think we're gonna order pizza tonight,” he said with a small grin. “And then I want to watch that movie we got the other day, so finish your homework, bitch.”  
  
“Jerk,” Sam threw back, and Dean chuckled as he left. Sam watched him go, smile still on his lips. Dean was home, and Dad was right downstairs. Had picked Sam up from school himself, looking happy and relaxed for the first time in years. They didn't butt heads as much anymore, only over little stuff like laundry duties and shower time. Normal stuff.  
  
And both of them would come running if Sam even so much let out a gasp, and he knew that from personal experience. There'd been nightmares, the first couple of weeks. There were still nightmares. And there were still two people who hurried in to protect and hold.  
  
The urge to look at the ceiling and the corners was growing with intensity. Sam bit down on his lip and reached for his book. He only had to look quickly and then he could get back to reading without any worries or stress. Just to make sure.  
  
He had to let it go, though. He had to try to let go, at any rate. Even if he didn't trust the wards or the demon's words, he had to trust his dad, trust Dean. And that meant trusting that he was safe. They were both in the house, wide-awake, and they weren't going to let anything happen to him. They'd saved him before. They'd save him again, if they had to.  
  
Resolutely he kept his gaze from the corners and the ceiling, and if his fingers dug a little harder into the pages, he pretended not to notice. He focused on the passage in his book and continued reading from where he'd left off.  
  
 _Communication of the inner life is always a courageous act of faith across a gulf of privacy and difference._  
  
Sam thought of his family downstairs and smiled. Courageous act of faith, sure. Trust always was. But there wasn't a gulf of anything between them. Closer now than ever before.  
  
“Sammy! Dad wants us _both_ to look at the book, you little dork, and I need to know what you want on your pizza!”  
  
Sam shut his book and tossed it onto the bed as he pushed himself off the end, smile back on. He hurried down the hallway towards the stairs, towards Dean and his dad, and didn't even look once at the corners or the ceiling of his room.  
  
END


End file.
